


Weeping May Endure

by cantor



Series: Those Who Serve the Light [4]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19117981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantor/pseuds/cantor
Summary: The Commander moves even closer and gently wipes the remaining tears on her face with his callused thumb. “Can I do something… for you?” he asks gingerly.“Kiss me,” she whispers in his ear, and he obliges.





	Weeping May Endure

“Maker, give me strength,” Wilme whimpers in the darkness, holding a burning candle in her hands, “I shall only go where you bid me. Make me worthy of your aid and your blessing. Make me fierce.”

The wax is warm, but the night is cold. It’s raining outside, there are soft rolls of thunder in the air and smooth splatters of raindrops on the roof. The Inquisitor is on her knees near the bed. She shivers, but doesn’t let it bother her; she’s too deep in solemnity of a prayer. “I shall only go where you bid me,” she repeats, “and when I fight, I fight for you, Maker. Make my will strong.” The tears in her throat make it painful to breathe, make it hard to continue, but she is determined to go on.

It is her nightly routine. Uninterrupted, she would pray until the candle was all burned out and her knees were red from standing on the floor. Wilme couldn’t claim communion with the Maker, but she was sure that one day she would achieve it. After all, many people believed she was His chosen, and although she doubted it because she doubted herself, deep inside she wanted to believe she was worthy to carry out His will.

Inside, there is a thick smell of incense. It soothes her, calms her nerves, warms her entrails. She is out of her armor which is laid neatly next to its stand; she wears a long padded vest with a belt and a tired smile of exaltation. Her carrot-colored hair is a mess of tangles and coils; she hasn’t brushed it yet.

When she is about to finish, a quiet, awkward knock interrupts her prayer. She wipes away the tears of rapture, but her face is still wet. She heads to the door and opens it. On the threshold, silently tiptoeing, is the Commander of the Inquisition forces, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, in full armor, fidgeting like a teenage boy. In his hands, there is a half-crumpled piece of parchment with a red seal over it. His hair is messy as well, and his dark stubble is about ten days of growth.

“Maker,” he gasps, “your eyes are red. Am I interrupting something? If so, I can come another time.”

“No, no,” Wilhelmine stammers slightly. “it’s all right. You just caught me a little bit off guard, that’s all.”

He isn’t much taller than Wilme, but still his presence is towering over her like a rock over a kitten. His crimson cloak clings tightly to his shoulders and back, the gilded templar swords shining dimly in the candlelight. He wears no gloves. There is a fresh purple bruise, pale on his face.

“Good then,” he says, “good.” Her appearance doesn’t let him be at ease. It pains him to see her in tears. “Were you... _crying_?” he finally asks, perplexed, and there is unmistakable urgency in his voice. “Did something happen I should know about?”

“No, thank you, there’s nothing. I was just praying to the Maker,” she responds in such a way as if she’s justifying a crime. “and I just get too carried away sometimes.” She lets out a soft chuckle.

The sound of her voice makes Cullen swallow uneasily, and her little chuckle gives him goosebumps all over his skin. For a second he thanks the Maker that he wears full armor in front of her. The thought makes his heart race awkwardly. There is something in that young woman that draws him incredibly close, but he doesn’t know what. He thinks he cannot comprehend, but in truth, he is extremely close to understanding it. There is a sense of purpose in her, he was her age. Sometimes, he sees himself in her, only younger, and the desire to guide her to a better place prevails. There is a naivete about her, like an air of consciousness, something he once had. He doesn’t regret not having it any longer, but it has its charm when one sees it from the outside, or so he thinks.

“I came to see you because there was a mix-up in the mail and a letter from your family somehow managed to get on my table. I brought it to you in case you were looking for it and couldn’t find it.”

“Thank you very much,” she says, “it’s very thoughtful of you.”

She takes the letter from him, and for a second, her fingers linger on his skin, a bit longer than needed, than it is permissible. He feels a strange stirring in his loins, then flushes slightly. The thought of her so close to him makes Cullen feel fuzzy. It’s too early, he tells himself, it is impossible, it is plain wrong and irresponsible, but he finds himself wanting it all the more.

“Do you often engage in such sort of prayer?” he asks plaintively. “I mean, the sort that makes you cry.”

“Those are not the tears of fear or sadness, Commander,” Wilhelmine replies eagerly, “those are the tears of happiness. Of fulfillment. For the first time in my life I feel like I am where I belong and it makes me incredibly happy. You may remember otherwise, but I used to be a different person when I joined the Inquisition, I was… scared. Afraid. But not anymore.”

Commander Cullen clears his throat. “I’m happy to hear that.”

She puts away the letter and returns to the threshold only to find that he has stepped over it.

“If I’m overstepping my bounds, you need only to say the word,” Cullen says apologetically. “But allow me to say this: it pains me to see you like this. You look lonely and lost. I think you’re overdoing it with your prayers.”

“I’m- I’m at a loss for words, Commander,” Wilhelmine says. “It means a lot to me that you care, but believe me, I am not overdoing it. It helps me sleep. It is a sweet release from days of responsibilities. It is how I free myself.”

He edges towards her. “You’re talking about it like you’re flagellating.”

“No,” she chuckles again, “not yet. Probably, never.”

The Commander moves even closer and gently wipes the remaining tears on her face with his callused thumb. “Can I do something… for you?” he asks gingerly.

They stand so close, face-to-face, cheek-to-cheek, that they can feel each other’s breathing.

“Kiss me,” she whispers in his ear, and he obliges.

Their lips meet eagerly, and so do their hands. The kiss is wet and long and even awkward, but both laugh quietly into each other’s lips after it is finished. She covers his cheeks with kisses and leaves a trail of wetness because of the tears. Together, the two wipe it away.

“Promise me, Wilhelmine-” he finally says, exasperated, but she interrupts him.

“Wilme. It’s just- It’s just Wilme. Please,” she almost begs.

“Promise me, Wilme, that you will not cry again. I cannot stand the thought.”

“I promise,” she says as he kisses her again.


End file.
